Memories of Amiens
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: Before 1832, before Paris, before the student revolution; there was Amiens. And Henriette. And pranks. And Latin Grammar. And a blind wolfhound called Argos. A brief insight into the life of our favourite blonde revolutionary- enjoy! Please feel free to read and review!


_**A/N: Before 1832, before Paris, before the student revolution, there was Amiens. A short insight into Enjolras's life before Les Miserables using characters from my chaptered story 'When Tomorrow Came'. Disclaimer: as I am not male, French or living in C18th Paris: how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for our favourite blonde revolutionary into something cohesive. Please don't sue me! **_

Memories of Amiens

The sun rising in a graceful arc above the sprawling flowerbeds, illuminating the rolling lawns that sparkled with silver dew drops. The sound of bare feet sprinting up the bare wooden stairs being quickly followed by a chorus of sharp reprimands that make him smile as he turns from the window, waiting. She had said that it would be today. She had promised. He waits, watching the stream of golden light spilling through the open window and landing in a puddle by the shadow of the doorframe. He can hear her again. She is running, calling his name so quickly that the syllables dance into each other; a jumbled mess of sounds- phoneme, grapheme… 'René! René, come… come quickly!' She skids into the room, her hair tumbling from its pins in a waterfall of golden brilliance. Her cheeks are flushed from the rush from the front door and the steady, racing climb up the stairs to his schoolroom and she has lost her shawl. He smiles, feeling it dance across his lips. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was almost eighteen. She acted like a blushing wild farm girl half the time, charging through life like a whirlwind, without a care in the world; in a defiant battle against the approaching prospect of marriage and womanhood that their loving, laughing mother and stern, thin lipped governess were so diligently trying to get her ready for. Henriette would never be a woman. Not to him. Her bright blue eyes, exact replicas of their mothers' and his own were sparkling with the leaping flames of mischief as she grabs his hand and tries to pull him away from the window; a peal of laughing escaping a pretty rosebud mouth as she drags him across the landing and down the stairs; leaving him no chance to ask where on the earth she is taking him this time.

They run as one, clutching at each other's clothes to stop themselves from falling, down the two flights of stairs that have been so recently polished; feet slipping, scrabbling; the sound of Madame Tévert's screeching reprimands from the dark recesses of the schoolroom ringing in their ears along with their Mother's laughing smile which floats through the drawing room where she is entertaining a select group of her lady friends who invade the house on a regular basis to take tea and pick up the latest gossip. They push past René's tutor who is carrying a pile of papers with barely a second glance, spinning round him like children playing a game; making the papers fly out of his hands in a cascade of white wood pulp which makes him curse and raise his fist at the pair of them, muttering about handing in his resignation and the dangers of laissez faire upbringing. He can just make out the heading on one of them, neatly written in his tutors' elegant cursive handwriting. _**Latin Grammar. **_He smirks at it; the bent spine, the pages fluttering in a fan of ink: _**Nominative, Vocative, Genative, Dative, Ablative….**_

He grins at Henriette who rolls her eyes at him, smirking. Both of them know exactly what the topic of polite conversation would be. _Henriette and her stubborn refusal to marry and keep house and society like any other girl of that age in their tightly knitted circle of upper class Bourgeois friends. And why not, Madame Flora? Surely she realises the eligibility of the young men who strut the streets of Amiens; young handsome men from good families and handsome fortunes. No… If she marries at all, Henriette will marry for love. For love?! Indeed? Please enlighten us Madame… And then there is René with his fledgling Revolutionary beliefs, no doubt picked up from reading his fathers' dog eared, water stained second hand copies of Robespierre, Desmoulins and Danton and isn't it just a perfectly juicy scandal to be picked over and reinvented and deplored over the carelessness of Madame Flora Enjolras's , wife to the richest man in the county's wayward offspring…_

Eyebrows are raised, voices hushed as they flash past; Henriette sparing one twinkling smile to the aghast faces that stare in disbelieving horror at Madame Flora Enjolras's wayward daughter as she catches his other hand and spins him, hands caught above his head, dipping her Mother's aghast visitors a perfect curtsey , the mask of ladylike decorum firmly in place. He knows that it won't last. Nothing lasts with 'Riette; she is constantly changing and charging onto the next excitement; barely sparing time to breathe. The effect is spoiled however, by the wicked grin that she gives her Mother, who has to smile despite herself and gives both of them a small nod of permission before turning back to her other companion; a small, dumpy woman with red ringlets and too much rouge and white lead smeared across her face in a mask of dutiful convention to the courtly codes of fashion; much to the horror of her nearest companion, whose mouth opens and then closes it again as she watches the wayward sprits dance away into the freedom of the grounds.

They have to contain their laughter as they dance and spin out of the front door which has conveniently been left ajar, followed by a thoroughly overexcited, blind wolfhound called Argos who spends his days lying in front of the kitchen fire and dreaming of the good old days of his youth, in which he would spend many sunlit hours romping the grounds and land around Amiens with his master. He stumbles out after them, tongue lolling; mouth open in a toothy grin as his feet scrabble and slip over the gravel as he desperately tries to keep up with the laughter gushing from the two bodies which he cannot see.

Finally they come to rest, having somehow managed to climb the gate and crossed the road before leaping the fence like deer; laughing as Henriette's dress catches on a spike and rips; so that a sliver of white cotton is left hanging in tribute to their escape. They laugh until they cry; the tears streaming from bright blue pools of clear water as she spins him round and round until he is so dizzy that he has to blink rapidly before the world rights itself; their feet trampling the fresh, hot grass that is yellowing in the heat of the midday sun. The nights' rain had been the first for weeks and the world was now bathed in a bath of watery gold. He bows low to her and she curtseys, eyes twinkling with mockery at his attempt at gallantry as he raises his eyebrows at her; a full, deep curtsey; her ankles folded gracefully behind each other as they dance, hands clasped, slipping through the steps with such ease and grace that they could have been born in position. The world seems to stop. Time stands still. From the gate back into the house, they can hear Argos's rumbling barks as he skidders around by the gate, desperate to know where on earth the noise is coming from. A cart laden with fresh vegetables from down the road clatters past; pulled by a stroppy, bay mare with cow hocks and a thick, ugly head who won't take to the bit. The farmer; short and plump with a red, good natured face, a nose that resembles a squashed tomato and beetle black eyes raises his cap to them and they smile; their cries of greeting lost in the wind.

He can feel the coolness of her hand on his cheek. He reaches up and clutches her long, artistic fingers; studying her face as if she is an artists' model, silently committing every feature to memory. The smattering of freckles which caressed the bridge of her slightly upturned nose. The chicken pox scar just below her left eyelid. The dimples that had bloomed in her flushed cheeks. 'I wish this day could last forever', she whispers as she takes him by the hand and leads him out of the trampled dance circle and pulls his body down onto a bed of grass. He nods silently, taking her hands in hers and kissing her knuckles as she falls back into the grass; her hair streaming out behind her in a waterfall of gold. He gazes down at her, a small smile tugging at his lips and wishes it too. Wishes that they could just stay like this forever. Wishes that somehow, he could capture the purity of this moment, the innocence, the joy of escaping as he gazes down at his sisters' face; wishing that she could stay with him. Wishes that she didn't have to marry. That he didn't have to leave the sunbathed security of the house and its' grounds and go to university; leaving her. Oh, he wants to go to Paris and study law, but then again will it be the same when he returns? Will she still remember their romps? Or will she have transformed into a prim, proper debutante who speaks in hushed, cultivated tones and won't even dream about thinking of running into the garden or discussing politics with him? He hopes not.

'Live for the moment, René.' 'Riette's voice floats softly through his reverie, slowly bringing him back to reality. 'Live for today, Mon Cherie.' He feels her hand softly reach over the space that separates them and squeeze his tightly, feeling the comforting pressure of entwined fingers. He smiles and slowly rises, reaching a hand out to her, pulling her to her feet as she laughs; one hand caressing his cheek as they slowly dance a Minuet, dipping in and out of each step like dreams; faces lit up with silent laughter. Knowing that in a world where nothing was perfect, they could at least try and make a perfect moment out of this one, last dance.

_He bows. She curtseys. The wind whistles through the trees and over the grass in a symphony of nature. Hands reach up to meet their partner. Fingers entwine. Bare feet rise, poised for that first, important step. He smiles. She grins wickedly. A moment of perfect silence, where the only thing in the world that matters is them. Two bodies waiting; poised in perfect harmony for the strike of the conductor's baton. The dance begins. _

**_A/N: This is for all the wonderful people who have read, reviewed and follow 'When Tomorrow Came'. You are truly magical and I would have stopped a long time ago had it not been for your constant support. Please feel free to read and review- I'm open to anything! Next installement of 'When Tomorrow Came' will be with you shortly, I hope! Much love and enjoy! x_**


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